Fire and Ice
by rslhilson
Summary: Wilson reveals his love for House, and the two friends deal with the aftermath.
1. Three Words

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 1: Three Words_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE/DISCLAIMER: **Story is set post-"Unplanned Parenthood" (but pre-"Office Politics"...why oh why must we wait so long for a new episode?) and contains minor spoilers for Season 7. The poem "Fire and Ice" belongs to Robert Frost.

* * *

_Some say the world will end in fire,  
__Some say in ice.  
__From what I've tasted of desire  
__I hold with those who favor fire.  
__But if it had to perish twice,  
__I think I know enough of hate  
__To say that for destruction ice  
__Is also great  
__And would suffice.  
__-_Robert Frost

"I...I love you."

He hadn't expected the words to come out so small, so quiet, so _weak_. He had wanted them to leave his lips in a torrent of fury and passion, like a freight train roaring out of his body and shattering everything in its tracks. Didn't every romantic movie, book, and song that he'd encountered in his lifetime agree that these tiny, yet burgeoning words were supposed to be some powerful force of…of _something_?

But instead, they were sputtering and scared, huddled meekly together in the space between them. So he repeated the words, louder and clearer and more powerfully this time. He drew strength from the time that he'd waited and the history that they shared, culminating into a burning desire in his heart that not even Amber had satisfied.

"House, did you hear what I said? _I love you_."

He'd hoped to get the freight train rolling and pave the way for their lips to meet, yearning and hungry and desperate and finally _free_. He'd dreamt about this moment a thousand times, imagining all the ways it could go right and all the ways it could go terribly, terribly wrong.

And so it was with a prepared, composed sort of sadness that he was able to watch as House simply turned around and walked out the door.

* * *

_Wilson, you idiot._

House downed the shot and signaled for the bartender to bring him another one. He didn't know if it was his fifth or his sixth or his seventh – who was keeping count? All he knew was that he needed more alcohol, and he needed it fast.

"Bad day?" the bartender asked, setting the drink in front of him.

House mumbled something about leaving him alone, his fingers curling around the shot glass. He frowned down at the whiskey, his usually-alert mind swimming as he tried to understand why he still wasn't feeling any better.

"Gonna need your keys," the bartender said, holding out his hand, and House begrudgingly dropped them into the outstretched palm. Fuck.

Fucking keys. Fucking whiskey. Fucking _Wilson._

* * *

He kept telling himself that nothing had changed. House always came and left as he pleased – why was now any different?

He didn't want to think about the look on Sam's face when she'd figured it out, the way her eyes had widened in surprise and hurt and a dawning _realization_ before she'd thrown her things in a suitcase and walked out the door. He didn't want to think about how he'd immediately called House to tell him that she'd left, how the familiar gruff voice on the other end of the line told him not to move, he'd be right there. He didn't want to think about how much it had pained him to lay it all on the line, to risk everything he had. There were two things he lived for – their twisted friendship and House's rare moments of happiness – and he'd threatened them both with the compulsive utterance of three simple, beautiful, _forbidden _words.

No, Wilson didn't want to think about those things at all.

So instead, he puttered around the empty condo as if he hadn't just watched two people walk out on him in the same night for the same reason. He turned on the television and put on an old episode of _The L Word_ – muted, of course. He ordered Chinese takeout for two – mushu pork with extra pancakes, and dumplings for himself. He raised the lid of the organ whose purchase had said so much about him and yet apparently hadn't said enough, leaving an open invitation for the exploration of dusty keys and unsung melodies.

He knew this wasn't home for House anymore, but what harm could there be in pretending that it was?

* * *

Cuddy was angry. Of course she was angry. First, she'd been interrupted by a phone call in the middle of a much-anticipated, hot Housian make-out session, and _then _she'd been interrupted by a phone call in the middle of much-needed sleep to go and pick up a typical Housian drunken mess.

"You're an idiot," she mumbled, glancing over at the passenger's seat to make sure he wasn't puking all over the car. At least Rachel was sleeping peacefully in her car seat in the back, much to Cuddy's relief that _something_ was going right tonight.

House kept his gaze in the brown paper bag she'd shoved at him, trying to focus against the nausea and fuzziness. "Too much," he groaned.

"Too much what? Too much to drink? Because I'm already well-aware of that, thanks."

"Too much _everything_," he clarified shakily, and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the headrest.

Cuddy pursed her lips, suddenly torn between frustration and disappointment and sympathy. "What were you getting drunk for, anyway?" she asked quietly. "What happened over at Wilson's?"

It wasn't enough to get an answer out of House, but that in itself was all Cuddy needed. With a sigh, she re-routed her mental GPS and began driving towards Wilson's condo. The two of them had an unwritten pact to take care of all Housian disarray together, but if Wilson had started this one, then he'd be the one to finish it.

* * *

The sharp knock at the door prompted a string of several different scenarios running through Wilson's head. For instance, he could imagine House storming in, yelling furiously about Wilson's ridiculous confession and demanding never to hear about it again (pretty likely). Alternatively, he could imagine House collapsing at his feet in tears, sobbing out declarations of love and begging for forgiveness and sex (somewhat less likely).

However, he hadn't expected to find Cuddy glaring at him as she struggled under House's weight, the diagnostician's head practically lolling to the side.

"Take him," she gasped as Wilson hurried to help her. "I can't leave Rachel alone in the car like that."

He stumbled into the living room with House's arm around his shoulders, highly aware that this was technically the kind of contact he'd been wishing for all along. "What happened?" he rasped as he let House collapse onto the sofa, knowing full well that his neglected abs and aching back wouldn't have made it to the guest room.

"He's drunk," Cuddy said flatly, having finally caught her breath. "Obviously something happened between you two and I know he's probably the one who started it, but _you_ need to fix it."

In truth, Wilson was glad to be given the role, but he still felt like he had to play his part. "Why me? You're his girlfriend."

"And you're his _best _friend." Cuddy paused at the doorway, turning back to Wilson. "Things aren't going to be okay between him and me if things aren't okay between him and _you_. But I want him back as soon as you're done with him."

The door shut, and Wilson glanced down as he felt House give him a weak kick with his good leg.

"Fucking moron," House grumbled. Wilson knelt beside him, resisting the urge to hold his hand and stroke his hair and let his finger drift across the stubble on his chin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. But House apparently didn't have anything more to say.

* * *

He hadn't been this hungover in a long, long time. He'd made a lot of bad decisions in his life, but at the moment, waking up and opening his eyes was at the top of the list.

_Holy…fucking…shit. _He thought his infarction was pain? _This _was pain.

Still, he was House, and being House meant that even amidst a pounding headache, reeling nausea, and screaming leg, he still noticed the careful way that the curtains had been drawn to block out the morning light, the soft blanket that had been draped over his aching body, and the empty bucket that had been thoughtfully left by his side. Too tired and miserable to care about how much Wilson cared, he pushed the blanket aside and promptly grabbed the bucket to empty what was left in his stomach.

"Hey." He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder as he finally finished heaving. "You okay?"

"I'm fucking brilliant," House groaned. "Time?"

Wilson glanced at his watch. "Around 9am. I called in sick for both of us."

"As if Cuddy couldn't have figured that out," House muttered.

"She's worried about you, you know."

"Yeah. She's so worried that she dumped me on _your _couch instead of taking me home herself."

If Wilson had any response to that, he didn't reveal it. "You should drink something," he said instead.

"What, I haven't had enough to drink already?" House squeezed his eyes shut as he willed the next wave of nausea to pass but could still feel Wilson's lips curling into a small smirk, not too big as to indulge him but still enough to acknowledge him. But then he realized that he was doing exactly what he always tried to avoid. This whole idea of _knowing _Wilson – of predicting his thoughts and actions and feelings as easily as he could diagnose a cold in the clinic – was never one that he'd whole-heartedly embraced (or one that he'd ever been able to escape).

He knew why, of course. He just chose to push the reason to the back of his mind, ignoring it like some irrelevant detail in a medical chart. The problem was that, apparently, he hadn't predicted _everything_.

It wasn't the first time he'd failed, and his chest and leg still burned at any recollection of the aftermath of Amber's death. And here again, the great Gregory House had missed a tiny detail that was, like all tiny details, enormously important, and now he was stuck trying to sort it all out. But how could he make sense of something so abstract and irrational, with no concrete symptoms to write on a whiteboard and a colossal hangover to boot?

But then again, there wasn't much to decipher. He'd known the diagnosis for a long time, and pretending that it didn't exist didn't actually make it go away. The only difference now was that Wilson was _validating_ it – a move he had never expected and was completely unprepared to deal with.

Like an expert, Wilson began listing House's usual hangover cocktails. "Water, juice, or Gatorade," he said. "Your pick."

"Gatorade. You got that orange one?" It was a stupid question, House thought, as he watched Wilson head to the fridge. Of course he had the orange one. It was House's favorite.

He drank slowly from the bottle, letting the cold, sugary liquid cleanse his rancid mouth and relieve some of his nausea. Wilson had side-stepped the bucket of vomit and was sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, watching him.

"I'm sorry," he finally said again as House set the Gatorade down on the coffee table and leaned back into the cushions.

"Don't. Just…don't." House closed his eyes, hoping that would end the conversation.

But Wilson wouldn't give up. "Just forget I said anything," he pressed. "You go back to Cuddy and I go back to covering your ass when you feed dimes to her kid, and it'll be like nothing even happened."

"Fine," House snapped, glaring at him. "Nothing happened, then."

And he closed his eyes again.

* * *

Wilson wasn't sure how much time had passed. Ten minutes? Twenty? He couldn't even tell if House had fallen back asleep. He contemplated his options, all the while knowing that he didn't want to move – partially because he had nowhere else to go, and partially because there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

He could retrieve the rest of his uneaten dumplings for breakfast, but House probably wouldn't appreciate the smell of the food. He could turn the TV back on, but even on mute, the glowing screen might disturb House's slumber. Or he could –

"Why'd she leave?"

Wilson turned to House, surprised that he was awake. "What?"

"Sam. You never told me why she left."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm fucking hilarious," House growled. "Will you tell me already?"

"House, I _did_ tell you. It's the reason you're sitting on my couch next to a bucket of your own vomit."

House's tired eyes widened in a subdued version of his typical expression of epiphany. "I thought that was just you blurting out crap like an idiot."

"Didn't say it wasn't," Wilson muttered.

They grew quiet again, and now it was Wilson who wanted to close his eyes and sleep. He'd gone to lie down in his own bed after House had passed out, but he'd spent the night tossing and turning, getting up more than once to check on his friend.

"So she found out," House said suddenly, and Wilson nodded tiredly. "You told her?" he pressed, a look of incredulity and disgust crossing his face.

"I…House, I thought we were both going to forget about this."

"Later," House said, waving his hand dismissively. "Tell me what happened."

Wilson eyed him quietly, trying to discern the tangled thoughts behind those blue eyes that he'd grown to love and hate so much. But he was unsuccessful as usual, and at length he let his preparatory deep breath signal defeat.

"We were fighting," he began, leaning further back into the cushions and staring at the blank television screen in front of him. "She wanted to talk about marriage, and I panicked. Somehow Bonnie and Julie were brought up, and one thing led to another…"

His voice trailed away, and from the corner of his eye he saw House's head jerk in his direction, not failing to notice the subsequent wince from his probably killer headache. "You seriously blame your failed marriages on _me_? Didn't think you were that much of an ass."

"What? No, of course not." Wilson turned back to him, meeting his gaze. "My marriages didn't fail because of _you_. They failed because my heart wasn't in them."

That didn't require any further explanation, but House still wasn't satisfied. "And that stupid bitch actually figured that out?"

"It may have just come out…I don't know. It didn't go as I'd intended. I was saying things without thinking." Wilson sighed heavily, leaning his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands across his face. God, he was tired. When had he gotten so _tired_?

"Go figure," House mumbled.

Wilson wearily tilted his head, resting his cheek in his palm. "Can we go back to forgetting now?" he asked.

He wasn't sure what he expected, and at House's hesitation he started to brace himself for the worst. But rather than replying, House merely grabbed the bucket and retched again instead.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Flashbacks

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 2: Flashbacks_

* * *

_You've known this was coming. When you date your ex-wife, it's practically inevitable. She starts to think that being with you again means that your past hurts have healed, and then she starts to wonder about second chances and fate. And you, with your affinity for avoiding communication even when the milk is out of place and the dishwasher is a mess, somehow go along with it._

"_James…have you thought about what it might be like for you and me, married again?"_

_Of course you haven't, you want to tell her. Why would you put yourself through that kind of mental hell? But Sam is waiting, smiling expectantly up at you from her cozy place in the cocoon of your arms, and you have to muster up some sort of response. _

"_You don't think it's too soon?" _

_Her smile evaporates instantly. "Oh. Do you?"_

"_I'm just…happy where we are right now." You lean in for a kiss, the sweet, romantic kind that usually appeases her, but she shakes your arm off and shifts away to the furthest edges of the couch. It's strange how alone that makes you feel, even though she's still only inches away._

"_I don't know where we are," she says slowly, shaking her head. "You say you're happy, but we've hit a plateau."_

_Your policy lately has been to avoid saying too much by saying as little as possible, but that apparently isn't going to cut it in this conversation. At your lack of response, Sam pushes herself off the couch and begins to pace around the coffee table, and something in your gut tells you to brace yourself._

"_We've waited a long time for this, James," she says furiously, and you realize you've forgotten how quickly her anger can start burning through her words as soon as she's upset. "What are you afraid of? That we'll screw it up again?"_

"_Would that be so hard to believe?" you shoot back. "Your _lawyer_ informed me about our divorce without so much as a warning from you, and then I got to watch two more marriages go to hell. But hey, apparently being married to you was the best fucking experience of my life, so we should just do it all over again!"_

_Her eyes go wide, and your stomach clenches. Maybe your policy might have been useful after all._

* * *

_You can't blame her for being angry. Why shouldn't she be? You pretty much just accused her of ruining your entire life just because she was the first to throw her wedding band back in your face, and even _you _have to admit that you went a little too far._

_She's yelling something about marriage again…God, you hate that word. Just the sound of it makes you shudder and cringe, like the first time you saw the scars on House's leg when you finally made it to the hospital. The memories flood back and you're left reeling on the couch, trying to sort out flashing images of Sam and Bonnie and Julie and mutilated flesh._

"…_fair to me. James, are you listening to me? I'm telling you that you aren't being fair to me at _all._"_

_Fair. What's fair, and what isn't? Is the world ever fair? So far it's given you a schizophrenic brother, three rounds of divorce, a tragically dead girlfriend, and a crippled limping twerp with whom you're irrationally in love. Sounds like Sam got the good end of the bargain, whatever the bargain was._

"_I'm sorry," you apologize. "Really, I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. But I'm just being honest with you when I tell you that I'm not ready."_

_She rolls her eyes, arms crossed. "I get it, okay? You're scared because you've failed so often and – no, don't look at me like that. It's true. Look, why don't you tell me why you got divorced the second and third times. What were their names again? Betty and Julia?"_

"_Bonnie and Julie," you mutter. There's not much to tell her. Sure, you could go into the technical details, like late nights at work and the occasional adulterous fling. But why bother going further when you know that Sam doesn't really want to go that far?_

_She doesn't care. She doesn't care about the real reasons, the deeper reasons, the ones that would probably drive her away. She just wants to get you talking so that maybe in some convoluted way, you'll arrive at the conclusion that it's not so bad, that you should give it another shot._

_And even if she did give a damn, she wouldn't want to know that it isn't failure that scares you. It's not the usual fears of commitment, or that something will go wrong. It's that marriage is the world's way of laughing in your face at what you will never be able to have._

* * *

_You didn't respond again, so now she's going on about your communication issues and the hell she goes through when you don't talk to her. You're literally holding your head in your hands as thoughts of ex-wives and House's leg are replaced by cold memories of pure Sam. She filled the dark ages of your life, a time of bitter silence and mundane misery as you struggled through a world without House._

_She's hovering over you with her hands on her hips, glaring at you as you slump into the couch. "James, this is ridiculous. Why is it so hard for you to just talk to me?"_

"_Sam, how many times do I have to tell you?" you yell back, lifting your head to return her glare. "I'm not ready for a fourth marriage! Why the hell is that so hard to understand?"_

"_What I don't understand is how it would even be any different! We already live together and _act _like a married couple. Why not make it official?"_

"_Because making it official makes it real!"_

* * *

_House is the one who's good at pushing boundaries and crossing lines, not you. There's too much conflict down that road, and you prefer peace – which probably would have been helpful to remember about two seconds ago._

"_So…this isn't real? What we have isn't real?" Sam's voice has dropped to a whisper, and that's almost worse than her usual yelling. You're hurting her, truly hurting her, and you wish you could stop. You're no stranger to the pain of knowing that the one you love holds no feelings for you in return, and the last thing you want to do is inflict that pain on anyone, including Sam._

"_That's not what I meant," you argue feebly, but the damage is done. There's no going back._

"_Do you even love me? My God, James…did you _ever_ love me?" She's crumpled back onto the edge of the couch, and despite the true answer to her question, your heart is actually aching for her._

"_I tried," you murmur, and you force yourself to continue even as her eyes close in quiet anguish. You've led her on this far – she deserves to know. "I think I may have loved you, the first time. But ever since we got back together…God, Sam, I was just so _lonely_."_

_There's a tear sliding down her cheek, and you're stunned enough to pause. You've never seen her cry before._

_She opens her eyes again, red-rimmed and dejected. "I loved _you_," she says quietly. "I still love you. You know me better than anyone – I thought I'd found my soul mate again."_

_You shake your head apologetically. "I don't really know you, Sam, and you don't know _me_. You may think you do, but you don't."_

"_Of _course _I do." Now she's up again, back to the pacing and the huffing and the crossing of her arms as she glares at you, and you take a deep breath to prepare. "No one knows you better than I do, James. _No one. _You and I were meant for each other, and I won't let you – "_

"_Sam, I'm sorry, but that's just not true!"_

"_Oh yeah? Who else could possibly know you better? Hmm? Tell me, James, because I'm just _dying _to know!"_

_His name comes out faster than it even crosses your mind._

_And as soon as it leaves your lips, she understands._

* * *

_TBC_


	3. Collide

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 3: Collide_

At Wilson's prodding, House grudgingly nibbled on a piece of toast and popped some Pepto-Bismol. Although neither did anything for his leg, at least the pounding in his head had reduced to a tolerable level and his stomach no longer wanted to violently rebel. They were now quietly watching Animal Planet on opposite ends of the couch, pretending that pregnant sea turtles were of utmost importance.

"Think you could go for some more toast?" Wilson asked at length, his eyes still focused on the screen.

House didn't turn his head, either. "Maybe later," he mumbled.

Their silence was sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders, and he was beginning to squirm under its weight. Carefully, he shifted his gaze towards Wilson, taking in the rare sight of his uncombed hair and wrinkled pajamas.

Despite the blue-and-green glow of the ocean illuminating his soft features, the dark lines of sadness etching across his face were unmistakable – but familiar. Even before the Amber fiasco, Wilson had always battled a sort of melancholy depression, and it wasn't just the clinical kind that he sometimes popped a pill or two for. It was a long-term choice, a way of life, one that oddly complemented House's own cynical view of the world.

It was baffling to him that the nurses swooned over on their asses for Wilson, believing him to be the incarnation of the warm and fuzzy Dr. Bear sitting on his desk. Sure, the man was charming, skilled in wooing women with his carefully-coiffed hair and lopsided smile, but anyone could see that he was anything but happy.

Or was it just that, compared to House, Wilson seemed like the epitome of joy?

"Not that I care or anything," he finally said as a commercial break began, "but she was a crazy lunatic bitch, anyway."

Wilson sighed, using the remote to mute the television. "You can't let this go, can you?"

"I just don't think you should regret the soulless harpie leaving," House shrugged.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I regret a lot of things right now," he muttered.

"Like telling me that you – "

"Shut up, just shut _up!_" Wilson glanced sharply at him, fuming. "You're unbelievable! You _never _want to talk about anything important, and then the one time I actually want you to keep your mouth shut – "

"I need to know we're okay," House interrupted, but Wilson didn't buy it.

"Bullshit. This isn't about us; this is about you and your stupid, obsessive need to know everything about everyone. I'm not a _patient_, House. I'm not one of your puzzles. I said something I shouldn't have said, and I'm sorry. There's nothing to figure out here."

Patients, puzzles, a whole life's work amounting only to pain. Didn't Wilson get it? This wasn't about deciphering _him_ and his stupid confession. It was the fact that the stupid confession had actually left House fucking _discombobulated_. Didn't it bother Wilson that he'd cared enough to go and get plastered in the middle of the night, that he'd cared enough even about a phone call to abandon the prospect of sex with Cuddy and come running to his side?

But of course Wilson didn't see it that way – why would he? He didn't fucking _know._

"Maybe _I'm _not sorry you said it," House mumbled.

A flash of surprise broke Wilson's angry glare. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself like an idiot," House scoffed. "You heard what I said."

They stared quietly at each other for a few moments – or for a few years; House wasn't totally sure.

"Don't do this," Wilson whispered finally. "Why can't you just let it go?"

"Because I can't," House murmured, and let his gaze retreat to the television.

* * *

Wilson didn't understand. House _wasn't _sorry that the nature of their friendship had effectively been ruined forever? He_ couldn't_ let it go? What the fuck did that even mean?

Well. He had an idea of what it _could_ mean. But he wasn't about to let his mind get the best of him – not yet. He'd waited too long for this, wasted too many nights getting lost in impossible dreams and laughable fantasies, spent years being tossed from woman to woman until he didn't know the difference between love and lust and just trying to fill the void of loneliness.

He'd already let his hopes get too high last night, and he wasn't ready to see them come crashing down again. Not without proof.

He stood from the couch, placing his hands on his hips in his usual strong-stance. "If you can't let it go, then let's talk about it," he said evenly.

"Thought you wanted me to shut up," House muttered, still staring at the silent sea turtles.

"Not if you're going to be like this." Wilson ran his hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. Had he stopped to brush it this morning? He couldn't remember. "If you're going to keep being weird about it, then maybe we _do _need to talk."

Silence filled the space between them, going on so long that Wilson started to wonder if House had even heard him. But then the diagnostician's next words came out so low that it was Wilson who strained his ears.

"Why do you love me?"

Wilson blinked. "What?"

House raised his voice, traces of reluctance overpowered by his assertiveness. "I _said_, why do you love me?"

Oh God, what a question. As if Wilson had totally figured out the answer on his own. As if he hadn't spent every minute of every day pondering, wondering, _agonizing _over why he'd let himself fall for a limping, arrogant son of a bitch.

"Why do you care?" he finally retorted.

"Because I can fucking diagnose diseases that even Einstein's never heard of, and I still can't figure out what the hell you see in me!" House was shouting now, Wilson taken aback. "I'm _damaged! _I'm a drug addict who can barely walk without wanting to kill myself, and I take _everything _from you! I take your food and your time and your _sanity _and I don't understand why you haven't moved back to fucking Canada by now!"

The funny thing about House shouting was that it wasn't usually in anger. More often than not, if you listened closely enough, the rage was just a convenient mask for his fear – and Wilson always listened closely.

"It isn't fair to you," House continued, lowering his voice so that it took on that deeper, gentle seriousness that Wilson loved to let glide into the shells of his ears. "It isn't fair to you how easy it was for me."

Now he could only blink in surprise. "What was easy?" he asked.

But House didn't answer.

* * *

If Wilson thought _this _was easy, then fuck him.

Sure, the whole _falling-in-love-with-him_ part may have been easy. Yeah, yeah, so he thought the hormone-riddled nurses were idiots for actually believing that Wilson was a living, breathing version of Winnie-the-Pooh. But at least House had hard evidence to back up his ironically irrational position.

The nurses didn't really know Wilson, but _he _did. He knew Wilson like he knew his own chronic pain. He knew all the signs and signals, and he'd come to accept that sometimes things – people – became a part of you whether you liked it or not. The only difference was that Wilson wasn't the cause of his limp, he was his human cane.

But this part, the _admitting-to-falling-in-love-with-him_ part, was anything but easy. In fact, House was surprised that he'd let it go this far. He'd survived years of struggling between burying his heart beneath his cynicism and his burning desire for Wilson to know, and suddenly the latter interest was beating out the competition. He was teetering on the edge, unnerved and strangely relieved all at once.

Apparently, his lack of response wasn't cutting it for the oncologist hovering over him. _"House,"_ Wilson pleaded, his brown eyes brimming with a sadness that House could only minimally describe as heartbreak. _"What was easy?"_

In life, you were supposed to play fair. You give and you take and you give and you take, and the hope is that, in the end, everything comes out balanced. But like he'd said – House was a taker and Wilson was a giver, and he hadn't thought that there was anything in-between. What he hadn't mentioned, however, was that he'd taken more than food and time and sanity. He'd taken a fucking life force, and Wilson didn't even know it.

Did no one seriously wonder how a miserable asshole like him in constant pain actually found the motivation to get out of bed in the morning?

And still, Wilson had given him more. A simple utterance of _I love you_, three little words that held so much power. Attempts to sweep them under the rug had been replaced by a new shared desire to let them sit there in the open, naked and throbbing, and what Wilson had started was suddenly left up to House to finish.

_Throbbing…_

He absently rubbed his aching leg, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue as Wilson's voice prodded him again. _"Please."_

For all that Wilson had given him, he supposed that he could finally give a little, too.

"It was easy to love you," he muttered at last, and didn't even flinch as Wilson collapsed onto the couch beside him.

* * *

His heart was racing, his lungs were burning, and he could feel pools of sweat gluing his clothes to his skin. He wasn't sure if everything was falling into place or if the world was collapsing in on itself.

"You…you never told me," Wilson choked out.

"Alternatively, you never told _me_."

"But…but Cuddy…"

"Cuddy's a sex toy," House snapped.

Wilson winced. "You don't have to pretend that – "

"Pretty sure we're past the point of pretending," House pointed out. "I couldn't have _you_, so I took _her_. Happy?"

Was he happy? He didn't know. He couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

"Hey. You don't believe me, do you?" House accused. He was steadily holding Wilson's gaze, refusing to back down. It was one of the few times Wilson actually felt grateful for his stubbornness, for his obstinate need for answers and closure.

But his throat was parched and his whole body felt like jell-o, and he was half-expecting to wake up from one of the most vivid dreams he'd ever had. "I just…I really thought you and Cuddy...you know…"

"I already _told_ you," House sighed. "Look, she's got a great ass, and she's killer in bed. But the woman is a nightmare. She lets me into her panties and all of a sudden I'm supposed to respect her so-called authority?"

"She _is _your boss," Wilson reminded him.

"Didn't care before, don't care now," House scoffed. "Sex with her wasn't supposed to mean that I had to stop being my usual delightful doctor self. _You_, on the other hand…"

He paused, his hand hovering over his wounded leg as if not knowing whether or not he was still hurting. "You stay," he said finally. "You _always_ stay. And yeah, that usually makes you a pain in the ass, but…no matter what I do, you never ask me to change."

Wilson swallowed, tentatively placing his own hand over House's. They froze, letting the feeling of the contact seep through their skin.

"You asked me why I love you," he said softly, moving his hand to House's leg and tentatively allowing his fingers to ease into a gentle, rhythmic massage. "You didn't seem to believe me, either."

"I'm not exactly boyfriend material," House muttered, his eyes settling on Wilson's sudden new offer of comfort, and Wilson gratefully took his lack of protest as permission to continue providing it.

"Do you think I loved Amber because I thought her personality was _unique_?" he asked gently. "Do you think Bonnie and Julie and getting back together with Sam were any different than you and Cuddy?"

"You kicked me out," House reminded him bitterly, and Wilson grimaced apologetically.

"I eventually had to try and move on, you know. But asking you to leave was the hardest thing I ever did."

"Right, 'cause I was just a _joy _to be around."

"Yeah, actually, you are." Wilson let the tiniest hint of a smile cross his face. "You wanna know why I love you? It's because you're everything I wish I could be."

House frowned at him. "You _want _to be a complete asshole to everyone you meet?"

"It's all relative, House. Sure, you can be…aggressive. But I love that you don't back down – I wish I had that kind of courage. You stick to your principles even when the world says you're wrong. You're honest – brutally so, but it's refreshing. You pretend to be an uncaring jerk, but you put entire career on the line to save the lives of total strangers. And you say that I've always stayed, but when have you ever walked away from _me_?"

"How long have you got?" House snorted, but Wilson fiercely shook his head.

"No. You never have, not when it mattered. Look, I get it. I know what people say about you and me. But when everyone tells me to walk away, all I can think of is how much I need you to anchor me down, because I'm afraid that I'll float away and drown without you."

He let his hand drift back to House's, forcing the diagnostician to meet his gaze. "You say that you're damaged…broken. But I'm the one who's watched three marriages come and go because I let others dictate my life. I'm not the strong one."

"But I _am_ damaged," House interrupted quietly. "I _am_ broken."

"We're all damaged, House. But the thing about you is…you make me _whole_."

* * *

They were frozen in time, moments turning into eternities as they approached the threshold to relinquish their life-long burdens of fear and loneliness.

In the end, neither would remember who moved first. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was that prickly hairs crashed into soft skin, rough tongues colliding to satisfy the burning craving that had eaten them alive since the night that marriage angst and genuine interest had brought them together. Hearts and souls that had been withering away for years were suddenly full of life again.

"Still not boring," House smirked as they pulled their lips apart for air, Wilson's subsequent smile mirroring his own. Crystal blue orbs bore into deep brown pools as they caught their breaths, pairs of calloused and smooth hands running fingers over skin and through hair before intertwining with each other.

And then they collided again.

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Afterthoughts

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 4: Afterthoughts_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews – they've meant the world to me! :) I'm not sure how many more chapters there will be after this one (I know, I'm terrible when it comes to story planning!), but rest assured there will be at least one more. My goal here was to make the H/W relationship as believable as possible given what's happened with Huddy, etc. up to "Unplanned Parenthood," so I hope everything is at least somewhat logical (and please beware of spoilers up to this point as well!). I also wanted to keep things realistic given that these two previously straight men have now entered a relationship with each other, which is somewhat confusing and strange for them both. I won't say anything more, other than I hope that nothing offends anyone – just trying to keep it real and IC under the circumstances.

Enjoy! :)

* * *

_Lips brush skin as fire melts the ice._

_Legs intertwine, the best kind of pain you've ever felt._

_Lies pave the way for whispered truths, I love you I love you I love you._

_A groan, ripples of pleasure as you call out his name. A rush, blood pumping as you reach the brink. A climax, your whole life building up to this moment with him. _

_This is everything you've dreamed of and more._

_This is paradise._

* * *

All that could be heard was the light sound of their breathing and the occasional rustling of sheets as they lay side by side, relishing the steady comfort of each other's heartbeats. House's arm was tucked around Wilson's shoulders, Wilson burrowing contentedly into his side as his head rested on House's chest. They neither knew nor cared how long they'd been lying in Wilson's bed, their destination after realizing that the couch wasn't quite as big as they would've liked.

At length, House gently poked the oncologist, just able to discern his closed eyelids beyond his ruffled hair. "You awake?" he asked quietly.

Wilson mumbled something unintelligible, and House smiled triumphantly. "Worn out by a cripple. Pathetic."

"Unlike you, I didn't get any sleep last night," Wilson murmured drowsily, shifting until he was facing House.

"Well unlike _you_, I was trying to survive the worst hangover of my life." House paused to trace a finger down Wilson's bare chest, both tingling at his touch. "Not that it wasn't worth it."

The blissful quiet resumed, and House could literally feel his heart warming at the smile that beamed on Wilson's face like the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. It had been a long time since he'd let his romantic side show, no matter what Cuddy thought of his stupid antics on the night they'd gotten together. Carrying her to bed (how the hell had his leg even let him pull that off?), bringing her breakfast, and all the other crap he'd resorted to had all just been an act of desperation.

It had been one hell of a night, and he'd been tired and upset and not totally in his right mind. Hannah's death had taught him a couple of things – one, that life sucked way more than he'd thought, and two, that life was also really, really fucking short. Sure, he'd lost patients before, but not like this. Not when he'd done everything right, not when he'd performed a perfect amputation under a fucking collapsed building just to watch chance roll the dice and screw with him. He'd meant to find an escape with the pills, not caring about relapsing and going back to Mayfield as long as the pain went away. Between Hannah and Wilson and Sam and life, he'd just wanted out.

When he'd looked up at the doorway, he'd wanted, perhaps even expected, to find a pair of doe-like eyes looking back at him. Foreman would have told Wilson, after all. But instead it had been Cuddy, the unreachable goal that for years he'd let distract him from what he really wanted.

Life sucked, life was short, and he'd been wasting it all away and he knew it. He'd needed comfort and he'd needed it fast, and he'd settled on Cuddy because logic and rationality hadn't given him a choice.

Funny how they'd never predicted _this._

But Wilson's smile disappeared almost as quickly as it formed. "Crap. What time is it?"

"Time for round two?" House guessed hopefully.

Wilson glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned. "I was supposed to call Cuddy."

House frowned. "_That's _your immediate reaction to more sex?"

"Well, it _reminded_ me of Cuddy." Wilson gently pulled away to lean back against the pillows, much to House's disappointment. "You do realize that you just cheated on your girlfriend."

"You do realize that I love you, and hence don't care." He didn't miss the easy way that the words rolled off his tongue, and Wilson's pause to concede a smile made House guess that he had noticed, too.

But Wilson continued to remain focused. "I know you hate considering the consequences of your actions, but this is kind of a big deal."

House shrugged, already feeling himself being pulled back behind his usual shield of evasion. Sex with Wilson was just supposed to have been that –sex with Wilson – and Cuddy wasn't supposed to have had any part in it. But he knew it was more than just the physical stuff that was going to be an issue. "I've been dealing with the wrath of Cuddy for years," he said. "I can handle it."

The ringing of the phone was right on cue, and Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Gonna answer that, then?"

* * *

"_Wilson? House? Are you there? Wilson, you said you'd call me. Hello? Ugh. Listen, I'm going to drop by during my lunch break and pick up Greg, so you guys better be around. Call me on my cell if you get this."_

Wilson leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed as he gauged House's reaction. In an effort to prove himself, the diagnostician had thrown on his boxers and a t-shirt before rushing out of the bedroom in search of the phone, but he'd apparently chickened out and was instead staring quietly at the answering machine's newly-blinking red light. Wilson had pulled on his pajamas and followed him out, catching Cuddy's message just in time.

"Shit," House said at last.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "Shit."

"Well…" House took a deep breath, then turned his gaze towards the kitchen cabinets. "You go grocery shopping recently?"

Wilson blinked. "What?"

"She's coming over for her lunch break; the least we can do is give her some grub." House limped over to the refrigerator and began digging through Wilson's food – nothing unusual, but not exactly what Wilson had been hoping for.

"House, you can't just feed her and then expect her to be okay with this."

But House's only reply was to pull some vegetables out of the fridge and grab a box of dried noodles from a cabinet. "Pasta primavera," he declared, and began rummaging around for utensils.

Wilson watched him quietly, trying to let the enticing scent of herbs and seasoned veggies calm his nerves. House certainly knew how to work with food, but his cooking was also somewhat unsettling. It brought back memories of a time when he'd still been struggling to cope without Vicodin, and it worried Wilson that he was again resorting to the distraction of playing chef.

"Smells good," he finally said, noting that House didn't even turn around. In fact, he didn't say anything at all.

What bothered Wilson the most was that he couldn't pinpoint exactly what House feared. If it was Cuddy's reaction, then he supposed he couldn't blame him. House had spent an eternity chasing after her like a dog, and she'd spent an eternity avoiding him until she'd finally given in. She'd opened her heart like the two of them had today, tossing away her security as she kissed her fiancé good-bye and even let House into her precious little daughter's world. She'd allowed herself to love House under the assumption that she understood all the risks, but Wilson was pretty sure that an affair with _him _had never been very high on her list of pressing threats.

But what if Cuddy had nothing to do with it? What if House was having doubts, feeling the pangs of regret starting to seep into his chest the way Wilson had each time a honeymoon came to an end? What if what scared House wasn't Cuddy's imminent hurt and anger, but the sudden prospect of a life shared with Wilson?

"Hey." House's voice pushed through the haze of his thoughts, concern pouring through. "You okay?"

Wilson looked up to see House's head turned over his shoulders as he continued to stir the pasta. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it," House frowned.

Wilson shrugged and nodded towards the pot. "Better keep an eye on that."

House hesitated, but he eventually turned back to the stove. "I know it's just in your sad, pathetic nature," he said, "but stop worrying."

If only he knew what Wilson was _really_ worried about.

* * *

Cuddy didn't actually scare him, if that's what Wilson was thinking. The woman couldn't do much to him anyway, especially now that the threat of withholding sex was obsolete.

And yet, here he was, getting lost in another one of his stupid cooking frenzies. It was a coping mechanism that had already been established as a failure, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else to do.

He tossed the vegetables a bit, annoyed but unsurprised that they weren't the best distraction from his thoughts as he found his mind drifting back to Cuddy. To tell the truth, he wasn't even worried about hurting her feelings. Since when the hell did he ever care about _that_? Sure, he'd tried to be a little more sensitive and caring and whatever over the past few weeks, but it wasn't as if he'd really given a crap. Life was a war, and you did what you needed to do to survive. He'd decided early on that if Cuddy made him feel less alone, then he'd do what was necessary to keep her around. And he had.

But Cuddy was just a small part of the equation. The bigger picture involved _everyone._ Cuddy, the team, his mother…

Okay, fine. So "everyone" wasn't exactly a huge crowd, and his mother didn't exactly count (when was the last time he'd even spoken to her? Probably not since the funeral. Shit).

Actually, it was pretty incredible how smoothly things had slid into place once he'd abandoned his policy of deceit in favor of revealing the truth. The kissing, the sex, laying by Wilson's side and saying "I love you" like it was the most natural thing in the world – it had been beautiful, really. Not since Stacy had he ever felt so free and alive and _happy_.

But as Wilson had pointed out, he wasn't big on facing consequences. And so when it had come time to pick up the phone, he'd frozen, because telling Cuddy meant that he'd have to tell the world – and he wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet.

It was funny, almost, because he'd never been ashamed of who he was. He'd never once hesitated to dish out an insult or a sarcastic remark, nor had he ever apologized for it. Even when hookers had glanced questioningly down at his embarrassing scar, he'd simply waved money in their face to remind them that they were getting paid to fuck, and nothing more. Being _House _had never bothered him, and he didn't know why adding another stupid line to his personal bio was such a big deal.

He turned to glance over at Wilson again, only to find an empty kitchen as the sound of running water came from down the hall. He hadn't even noticed that Wilson had left.

"You better not use all the hot water in there," he called over the shower noise. "I stink."

No response.

It wasn't even that he was homophobic or anything. He didn't really give a damn about that kind of stuff, and you couldn't exactly accuse him of being a bigot – he'd hired an immigrant, a Jew, and a black guy, for God's sake, not to mention a bisexual goddess (he was still in denial that Thirteen was gone, no matter how much Cuddy loved to remind him). Plus, Wilson was by far the best fuck he'd ever had. It was pretty unbelievable, the mind-blowing sex you could have in the absence of the female form.

And yet, maybe that _was _his problem. As much as he'd secretly yearned for Wilson, he'd never really pictured himself with another man, and having to tell people was going to make that reality very, very real.

But as he let his thoughts drift back to the morning's events, it dawned on him how little any of that really mattered.

Why? Because Wilson was finally _his_.

And if the world had a problem with that, then fuck them.

* * *

The hot water soothed Wilson as it ran down his skin, cleansing the sweat that had only moments ago been mingling with House's own. If a disaster was going down at Cuddy's arrival, he figured that he may as well be clean for it.

Mostly, though, he'd decided to just let House cook and get lost in whatever crazy thought process he usually engaged in. He was still harboring his own stupid worries, of course, but he was working on pushing them to the back of his mind. Whatever was bothering House, it was okay. He could understand. It wasn't as if this transition had been a piece of cake for him, either.

He'd never had sex with a man before, but God, it was _great_. Even Julie after her freakin' yoga classes couldn't compare. And the release of his emotions combined with the revelation of House's own feelings for him had culminated into the most beautiful, blissful relief he could have possibly imagined.

But still, even he had to admit it was a little strange. This new intimacy with House was welcome and long overdue, but it was new just the same, and he'd never thought of himself as gay (not that there was anything wrong with that). But were they even gay, or were they bi? He didn't know how to tell, much less whether or not it actually mattered (where was Thirteen when you needed her?).

A couple of shampoos and a good scrub down later, Wilson stepped out of the shower, drying off with a towel and throwing on a t-shirt and jeans before working his blow-dryer magic. He could immediately picture House rolling his eyes in the kitchen, a familiar image that was strangely comforting.

When he emerged from the bathroom, House had filled a large serving bowl with pasta and left the pots and pans in the sink for Wilson as usual. "Nice hair," House smirked.

Wilson managed a small smile in response. "Did you wanna hit the shower before Cuddy comes?"

"Nah, I know you enjoy my manly aroma." House joined him at the counter, wincing a little as he limped. "The bitch better bring my cane when she gets here. I can't remember if I left it at the bar or not."

Wilson eyed him sympathetically, but as the refreshing afterglow of the shower wore off, the thoughts that had been worrying him before began to creep back into his mind. Honesty had brought them this far...would it really hurt to keep going with it? If there was anything he'd learned in the past few hours, it was that telling the truth was even more underrated than most people thought.

"House…can I ask you something?"

The diagnostician nodded, and Wilson took a deep breath. "Is it Cuddy that scares you, or…is it us?"

House frowned. "What?"

"Your hesitation to tell Cuddy," Wilson clarified. "Is it because you're afraid of _her_, or is it because you're having doubts about _us_?"

"Hey hey hey," House objected. "Why the hell would you even think that?"

Wilson shrugged cautiously. "I don't know. I guess I'm just a little paranoid, that's all."

"What's new?" House sighed. He moved in a little closer, forcing Wilson to meet his gaze. "Look, I'm sorry I chickened out before. I don't know why I did."

"House, if it's the gay thing – "

"The _what_?"

"The gay thing. You know…you and me, two guys..."

House rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, I admit it. As fucking _awesome_ as you are in bed…it was kinda weird, thinking about it. And yeah, maybe the thought of having to tell people was starting to freak me out."

Wilson nodded in understanding. "It's okay if you – "

"Let me finish. It was _starting_ to freak me out. But then I did some more of my brilliant logical reasoning."

"And?"

"_And_…I decided that they can all kiss my ass, as long as I get to keep kissing _you_."

The unexpected but appropriate kiss that followed was so pure, so unquestionably _right_. It coated his lips and his tongue and Wilson felt himself arching desperately into House, their hands clutching necks and cheeks and backs as they fumbled for more.

House raised his eyebrows as they finally pulled away, steadying themselves. "Do you _seriously_ use strawberry-scented shampoo?"

"I bought a new brand yesterday," Wilson grinned sheepishly. "Do you…like it?"

"Don't be such a girl," House smirked. "You better not cheat on me with Chase, or he's going to die. Literally."

"I'll keep that mind." Wilson's hand drifted over to House's, letting their fingers curl gently together. "So…Cuddy?"

"Not a problem."

"And everyone else at work?"

"Ditto." House smiled as he gave Wilson's hand a gentle squeeze. "Aren't you going to ask me about all my other friends?"

"Such as?"

"Oh, you know. Nora. That crazy vet downstairs. All my homies at Mayfield."

They jumped a little at the sudden sharp knocking that filled the room, and House glanced at the door. "Hey, maybe that's them coming to visit."

Wilson squeezed his hand back. "I'm right here with you, you know."

House turned back to him, and this time neither were surprised when he leaned in to kiss Wilson on the cheek. "I know."

* * *

_TBC_


	5. Acceptance

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 5: Acceptance_

"Where the hell are your pants?"

House glanced awkwardly down at his boxers. Shit. He'd totally forgotten about that. "Puked all over 'em," he lied as Cuddy handed him the cane that he'd forgotten the night before. "My bad."

With the exception of a quick peek at her cleavage (as if even Wilson could resist), he could barely bring himself to look at her. She was exhausted, exasperated, _disappointed_, and he knew why. It wasn't her mounds of paperwork or sleepless nights with a crying toddler, or even her endless run-ins with legal and HR for his slightly questionable conduct. It was _him_ – not Dr. House, but Gregory House; not her employee, but the man who'd claimed that he loved her.

It was broken promises and failed expectations. It was choosing to value Wilson's needs over her's. It was an unreturned phone call, a lack of pants, opening the door without so much as a "hello" or a kiss.

He suddenly remembered an old conversation with Wilson, right before he'd been hauled away to Mayfield.

"_Do you really want Cuddy, or is this another challenge?"_

"_You're worried that once I'm in a relationship, you and me will be over."_

"_Hey, I'm actually for this. I think this is great. But if you're serious and you don't treat it seriously, then you will get hurt. And, if you don't accept that, then accept that _she_ will get hurt."_

The subtle hints, the underlying implications…he couldn't even count how many times he and Wilson had thrown bones at each other, still merely assuming that the other was only joking. Even Wilson's support for his relationship with Cuddy had been a sort of backwards sign, an indication that all he wanted was for House to be happy. Looking back now, though, Wilson had been absolutely right: Cuddy had been no more than a challenge, one that had never really paid off, and now she'd be the one suffering for his selfishness.

But he'd had every reason to fight for her before, believing that no other option existed. Even his drugged-up brain, forever clinging to rationality no matter how many Vicodin he'd taken, had let him hallucinate a night of comfort and love and sex with _her_ rather than Wilson. He'd paid for it in Mayfield and come out ready to take her on again, battling for her affections until she'd finally surrendered.

But the submission had come with strings attached. Love was conditional on her turf. He wanted sex? Only if he made the effort to put her so-called sanity before his patients' lives. He wanted a night of just lying in her arms, convincing himself that he wasn't still the loneliest man on earth? He'd have to play Mr. Mom and babysit her idiotic kid first. He wanted some time away from her to hang out with Wilson instead? Not unless he drank himself to oblivion and proved her preference for dumping him on someone else's couch when times got tough.

He'd hated every rule, but it wasn't as if he'd been fair to her, either. His own heart had come with limitations, namely a sole desire for an abundance of sex and a cure for solitude. The difference was that she'd been honest and he had not, and he'd let himself get lost in her arms and her bed before he could even process what leaving her fiancé for him really meant.

He sidestepped Cuddy's attempt at a conciliatory kiss as she entered the condo, finally allowing himself to meet her stern gaze. "I haven't brushed my teeth since I puked my guts out," he said, hoping it would be a good enough excuse.

She rolled her eyes in response, turning to glare at Wilson instead. "And _you_," she scolded, "why didn't you call me? Didn't you get my message?"

"I was about to call you back," Wilson apologized. "We slept in pretty late."

Cuddy sighed. "Did you guys work out your issues, at least?"

The corners of House's mouth twitched involuntarily, but a warning glare from Wilson helped him focus again. "We sat on the couch with tubs of ice-cream and cried through re-runs of Oprah," he declared. "You want lunch? I cooked."

"I can't. I was just going to bring you home and take you off Wilson's hands, but we're strapped in the clinic – I need you there. And I need Wilson to stop babysitting you and get back to work, seeing as he _actually_ has more than one patient at a time."

House shook his head, making his way into the kitchen. "No can do."

"If you're still not sober, I'll hook you up to an IV," Cuddy countered irritably as he returned with the food. "I don't have time to fight you about clinic hours, House."

"Actually…" Wilson took a deep breath, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "We were hoping we could talk to you. I know you're busy, but…it's really important."

House tried to gauge her reaction. Beyond a guarded sense of caution, her dark eyes remained stoic, but she eventually gave in. "Well…if it really can't wait…"

"Great!" He held the bowl out to her, forcing on a smile before she could change her mind. "Hungry?"

* * *

Cuddy toyed quietly with the pasta, twirling it around her fork without actually bringing it to her mouth. House's cooking was phenomenal, no doubt, but she didn't have an appetite. It seemed that House and Wilson didn't either, the two men sitting uncomfortably across from her at Wilson's dining table.

She didn't bother to tell them why she'd come. They hadn't asked. She really could have just left House there all day, letting Wilson clean up after him. But she'd been hoping to have an excuse to pick him up, and the understaffed clinic had been the perfect reason to swing by. She'd tried to push her suspicions to the back of her mind on the drive over, but seeing her boyfriend and his best friend sitting side-by-side was slowly making them bubble up again. At least the former had finally pulled some pants on first.

"Cuddy…"

House's voice peeked through her cluttered thoughts, and she looked up from her plate. The two faces before her paired perfectly together, just like always.

"Look, if you need me to play couple's counseling, make it fast," she said, wincing a little at her choice of words. "I need to get back to work."

Wilson's hand, slowly moving until it held House's own, may as well have plunged a knife through her heart instead. House cleared his throat, but did she really need any further explanation?

"I'm…in love with Wilson."

And there it was.

She could be just like him, she knew. She could walk away now, maybe get drunk in a bar somewhere, put off facing consequences for as long as she could. She knew they were waiting for her to say something, to react in some way. She could yell and scream and cry, and no one here would think the worse of her. But what would they think if they knew that she wasn't very surprised at all?

She'd had her suspicions, and she suspected that she wasn't the only one. Even with Stacy and hookers on one end and three wives on the other, no one could deny the closeness that bound House and Wilson together no matter how many Voglers and Tritters and girlfriend deaths threatened to tear them apart.

She was sure House had his own theories about why she'd dodged his affections for so long. His bitter personality, his pathological lying…it was true that they'd been factors of their own. Not to mention that she'd had fun being chased, enjoying House's compliments (in poor taste, perhaps, but at her age, she'd take what she could get) on her physique.

But the real reason she'd held him at arm's length? The real reason was that, post-Stacy, there was only one person she could truly envision House in a working relationship with – and it hadn't been her.

And yet, with House practically groveling at her feet, she'd considered that maybe he wasn't vying after Wilson after all. Why else would he have pushed so hard to win her over? And then with Wilson getting back together with Sam, her initial hesitations had come even more undone.

So she'd abandoned the safe for the risky, ditched the mundane for the exhilarating. Gone was her reliable, loving fiancé, replaced by a man for whom she'd had indescribable feelings since that fateful night in her dorm room. Maybe she'd expected too much, trying to sculpt House into the kind of guy that she'd hoped he could be. He hadn't even totally let her down, wooing her with all sorts of gifts and tricks.

But that was apparently all they'd been: tricks. And now her reservations were coming back to bite her in the ass.

What hurt wasn't that House and Wilson had finally accepted how much they needed each other – it was about damn time for that. What hurt was that they'd waited until she'd given her heart to House to do it.

"You cheated on me," she said at last.

House grimaced reluctantly, but Wilson quickly intervened.

"It only started last night," he assured her. "I swear, we didn't plan anything…it just happened."

"What happened? Sex happened?" Both men noticed the surge of anger beginning to creep into her voice, but it was Wilson who continued to take the lead in explaining. It disappointed Cuddy, but she couldn't be surprised –Wilson had spent half his life covering for House's ass. Why stop now?

"Sam left me last night," he explained gently. "It's…it's a long story, but I called House and he came over and…_I'm _the one who started this. If you're going to be angry, be angry at me, not him."

"_You _didn't cheat on me," she snapped, standing from her seat and throwing her napkin to the table in disgust.

"Lisa…" House began, but she was done. She'd had enough.

* * *

Wilson jabbed House in the ribs as they watched Cuddy storm out of the room, both struggling to stand and keep up.

"I'm not the one she needs to hear an apology from," he hissed.

"I'm trying," House muttered back, but Wilson rolled his eyes.

"You're just avoiding your problems, _again. _We agreed we were in this together."

It wasn't until the words left him that he realized he was probably talking about more than just dealing with Cuddy, but House took the hint. He sighed, watching as Cuddy hastily shrugged her coat over her shoulders.

"Lisa, I'm sorry."

"Like hell you are."

"I am." House shifted a little, glancing over to Wilson for help that he couldn't give. "I never meant to hurt you."

Cuddy glared at him, her dark eyes turned stone-cold. "Of course not. You just chased after me for God knows how long, let me fall in love with you, and then turned around and dumped me for Wilson as soon as the opportunity presented itself."

"The dumping you for Wilson part wasn't exactly on my agenda."

"Well, it _should've_ been…about 50 years ago!"

For once, House was speechless, and Wilson could only furrow his brow in confusion. Cuddy sighed, clearly exasperated by their lack of response.

"You guys are perfect for each other," she said. "You're like…like Batman and Robin, for God's sake." She paused, considering her last comment. "Or maybe Bert and Ernie is more like it."

Wilson cocked his head to the side, trying to process her words. "Are you saying…you knew?"

He could see the fury in her eyes slowly being replaced by a certain sadness, one that he was unfortunately familiar with. The realization that the one you love has actually fallen for someone else…he knew the feeling all too well, even if House's love for Cuddy had been a ruse, and he hated the guilt that pierced his stomach for managing to cause the same hurt in both her and Sam within a 24-hour period. Not that it was entirely his fault – House was just as culpable – but just because he hadn't been the one cheating on Cuddy didn't exactly exonerate him. She was his friend too, after all.

And anyway, hadn't they both been cheating for a while, at least emotionally? They'd secretly loved each other for God knows how long, all the while flocking to other women for comfort. Apparently Cuddy had seen in both of them what they hadn't been able to see in each other, and he vaguely wondered if anyone else in the hospital had harbored their own suspicions.

But it made sense to him now, Cuddy knowing all along. It had probably contributed to her doubts about letting House into her life in the first place, and even today it had probably led her to come pick him up early. What could she have thought last night, watching House race to his side in the middle of the night and subsequently drink himself to death?

"If you'd said this to me a few months ago, I wouldn't have been surprised," Cuddy conceded, slumping against the wall as defeat and exhaustion overtook her original intention of storming out in a rage. She glanced sadly up at House, who hadn't broken his intent gaze since her confession. "But the more you fought for me…I thought that maybe we had a chance after all. But who knows? Maybe I was cheating myself. Maybe I knew all along that it would never work out."

House didn't move from his stiff position by the door, but Wilson could see the familiar glint of guilt in his eyes. It wasn't quite as recognizable to those who automatically dismissed him as a perpetually uncaring jerk, but Wilson knew it well. The flashes of worry, the glimmers of remorse…just because he didn't let his concern go further than slight shifts in the deep blue of his eyes didn't mean he was a complete ass.

"I did _want_ it to work," House said at last.

Cuddy nodded. "I know."

"Why'd you even bring me over here last night if you knew?" he pressed.

"I don't know," Cuddy admitted. "I didn't think you and I could function if you were on the outs with Wilson. And I didn't know why you were so upset, but ever since we got together, I've just assumed…"

Wilson moved forward a little as her voice trailed away, hoping his own outward apologetic expression would be enough for them both. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "We really, really didn't mean to hurt you."

The painful smile she granted him practically made his heart break. "I _know_," she assured him. "But…you guys have waited long enough to be happy."

"You have, too," Wilson began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.

"It wasn't right," she said, looking back at the diagnostician. "We would've been miserable in the long run. I think we both knew that."

She took a deep breath then, glancing at her watch. "Anyway," she continued, "I…I should really get back to work."

"Take the day off," Wilson suggested. He was surprised that she was even considering going back to the hospital, although he supposed that she could use the work as a distraction.

"If only I could." She nodded at House. "Clinic duty?"

House frowned. "You _want _me in the clinic?"

"I _need _you in the clinic."

"So…you're not going to fire me."

"House, if I had any intention of firing you, I would've done it years ago," Cuddy snorted, adding, "You should probably change, though."

House glanced down at his rumpled t-shirt and the pair of Wilson's sweatpants that he'd thrown over his boxers. "I thought this was a turn-on."

"We'll get ready and meet you there," Wilson said quickly.

Cuddy placed her hand on the doorknob, but House's voice stopped her. "Thank you," he murmured.

She turned to him, somewhat surprised. "For not firing you?"

"For not_ killing_ me…or Wilson. And also for comparing me to Batman."

"I also compared you to a Sesame Street puppet," she reminded him, conceding a small smile. Then, after a moment of consideration, she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I really am happy for you," she whispered. "Just don't screw it up this time, okay?"

House nodded. "Cuddy – "

"I'll see you at work," she murmured, and the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Wilson let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since she'd arrived. "Well, that actually went better than expected."

House rolled his eyes. "I break her heart, and I _still _can't get out of clinic duty," he muttered.

"Think of it as penitence." Wilson walked over to him, gently squeezing his shoulder. "You okay?"

House gave a slight nod, and Wilson knew that their thoughts were the same. Happiness in life was always bittersweet. Cuddy cared too much for House to stand in his way, just as Wilson had. In fact, they'd been lucky that she did. A revengeful boss with Cuddy's tendency to hold a grudge was not something he'd prefer to think about.

And when House raised his head, the hint of shame in his crystal blue eyes had been washed away by a glimmer of a new feeling – _relief_.

"Wilson."

"Yeah?"

"I'm _free_."

Wilson smiled, his hand intertwining with House's own. "Come on," he murmured. "Let's get ready for work."

* * *

_Epilogue on the way!_


	6. Epilogue

_Fire and Ice_

_Chapter 6: Epilogue (Six Months Later)_

Time heals all wounds – that's what Wilson's mother used to say. But in his 40-odd years of life, Wilson found that time had never actually healed much of anything. As it trudged onward, he could only watch as time took away his youth, destroyed three marriages, ravaged his brother's health, and killed the only woman he'd ever truly loved. Time wasn't a healer; it was a cruel son of a bitch.

So it was only fair that now, Wilson was getting his dues. Time had made him wait for House, and time had finally paid up.

There was something strangely perfect about a relationship being beautiful and ugly, wonderful and terrifying all at once. They'd had their ups and downs –good days and bad days, whatever you wanted to call them – and there had been times when Wilson had wanted to walk out the door with a "fuck it all," because who wanted to love a crippled bastard, anyway?

But you don't get to choose your friends, and you don't get to choose whom you fall for, either. Despite the typical Housian craziness that sometimes left Wilson questioning his own sanity, there was a reason why the past six months had been, in their own way, _healing. _

Sometimes he wondered if, somewhere in the vast unknowns of the universe, there really was a bigger picture drawn out. Why not think of Sam, Bonnie, Julie, and even Amber as mere stepping stones, laid out by a Higher Being on a pre-conceived path that eventually led him to House? He imagined Stacy and Cuddy on the diagnostician's own road, running parallel to Wilson's before they finally met and forged a new trail together.

House, of course, had rolled his eyes at the idea, King of Metaphors or not.

"If there's some greater plan, what kind of sadistic moron decided we should first be miserable for half our lives and _then_ get together?" he'd scoffed.

"_Because now I don't take you for granted," _Wilson had wanted to say. _"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you."_

But he didn't say that. He didn't say it because it would've been too sappy for House to hear, but he was also pretty sure that he didn't _have_ to say it. House already knew.

If their new relationship had come as a surprise to them, their colleagues seemed less taken aback. The team had even been taking bets on how long it would take for them to hook up (much to House's displeasure that even "those romantically-challenged idiots" had figured it out first), although they'd had to renew their guesses every now and then. It seemed that Foreman had made some passing remark about House sleeping with Wilson before Cameron would sleep with Chase, but when the latter couple came out into the open, so had their wallets. Even the newcomers had been in on it, though Taub assured Wilson that Amber had bluntly refused. Thirteen would have won, but given her absence, Chase was a very happy runner-up.

But although House's distaste for PDA kept outward discussion at a minimum, Wilson knew that people talked. He'd overhear hushed discussions in the hallways and the cafeteria, doctors and nurses murmuring about poor Dr. Wilson being brainwashed into caring for that asshole diagnostician.

First of all, he'd been caring for that asshole diagnostician for a very, very long time. But no one knew how much _House _took care of _Wilson_, how much Wilson's own comfort and security depended on hearing the tapping of the cane and the uneven footsteps that meant that House was on his way. No one could possibly understand how much he needed to come home to the one crazy bastard who made the world make sense.

The only one who knew, perhaps, was Cuddy. She was dealing in her own, quiet Cuddy way, even going so far as to ask Wilson how things were going with House. Her coping mechanism was to act as though nothing had gone wrong, although no amount of professionalism could hide the sadness in her eyes. Wilson had wondered if she'd beg Lucas for a second chance, but House had pointed out that her willingness to leave him in the first place said enough about that. Instead, she'd simply gone back to playing the role of boss, which was just fine with Wilson.

"Easy for you to say," House had muttered. "You're not the one who has to deal with her bureaucratic idiocy all day."

"Far be it for me to actually play by the rules."

"And far be it for _me_ to actually try to save my patients' lives."

It really was just like old times.

Cuddy had even hired a new doctor for the team, a socially awkward but admittedly brilliant med student – Martha Masters, or something like that. Wilson had only talked to her once or twice, but she seemed like a nice girl. House, of course, had rambled on and on about how she was just Cuddy's way of pissing him off. That may have been partially true, but they both knew that Masters was also Cuddy's way of showing that she _wanted_ things to go back to normal. She'd warned him about hiring a female, and she'd followed through on her word – it was exactly what Cuddy the boss would do.

And anyway, House owed his life to that girl. Wilson still wasn't sure what had been worse – sitting with House through the worst of his infarction pain, or sitting on the other side of the isolation room as he desperately bargained with God, terrified as he waited for House to show symptoms of smallpox. At least Wilson had been there to hold his hand through the worst of the infarction, but to be utterly helpless behind the glass walls, not even able to touch him…if Masters hadn't come up with rickettsial pox, well, Wilson didn't even want to think about what that would have meant.

But that was all part of the package, wasn't it? Being with House meant being with a guy who liked to _almost_ die at least ten times a year. It meant being with a guy who was sarcastic and manipulative and rude, and _honest _and _funny _and _brilliant_, and astonishingly kind in the most unexpected moments. It meant sprawling on the bathroom floor through hours of agonizing leg pain one night, and letting _him_ comfort _you_ after a death in peds with a gourmet dinner and an organ concert the next. It meant raging fights and pure, unadulterated happiness, and the most mind-blowing sex he'd ever had.

And being with House meant finally, _finally_, being loved by him in return.

* * *

Tonight, Wilson decided, was going to be special.

He'd asked House to meet him at the nice Italian place a few blocks down, where House had once taken Nora during what they now called one of their "typical phases of denial." The restaurant was just as Wilson remembered it – dimly lit, with golden curtains and tablecloths casting their own illuminating glow against the dusky stone walls. He peeked in through the window, watching as House impatiently tapped his fingers on a half-occupied table for two. Already a bottle of their favorite wine had been poured, and House was staring grumpily at the healthy (God forbid) salads that had been served as appetizers.

Okay, so maybe tonight was going to be a little cliché…and possibly a little lame. And House was probably going to go off on another one of his rants about how pathetically cheesy and hopeless Wilson was.

But screw it all. He'd made up his mind to do it, and by God, he was going to.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the restaurant, much to House's obvious relief that he no longer had to sit there by himself.

"It's about time," House grumped as Wilson made his way over to the table. "Why'd you pick _this _shack, anyway? Thought we wanted to try that new burrito place."

"It's a nice restaurant, House. And I thought it had some…sentimental value."

House frowned, unconvinced. "_Sentimental?_ Why, because this is where I took Nora and you…"

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes suddenly wide. "You wouldn't."

Wilson grinned down at him, his hand reaching into his pocket, and House's stunned expression soon turned into a knowing smirk. "James Evan Wilson, you _wouldn't_," he said, but they both knew that, in fact, Wilson very well _would_.

His voice loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, Wilson repeated the words that he'd once wished he could say without pretending that every hint he dropped was a joke, without pretending that he hadn't spent every night wishing that the woman laying beside him in his bed was House.

"I love this man, and I am not wasting another moment of my life denying that!"

The small black box in his pocket came out as he knelt down on one knee, opening it to reveal a ring. "Gregory House, will you marry me?"

"Say yes already!" a woman shouted, and the restaurant broke into applause as House leaned in for a passionate kiss.

"That should be 'yes' enough for you," he smirked as Wilson slid the ring onto his finger and took his place across from him at the table. "You do realize that the state of New Jersey still frowns upon our evil misdeeds."

"So we take a road trip to Canada. Or Massachusetts – isn't it legal in Massachusetts?"

"And you also realize that just because _you _proposed to _me _doesn't mean that I'm agreeing to be the woman in the relationship."

"Wouldn't dream of it, House."

Apparently satisfied, House leaned back in his seat, playfully eyeing his new fiancé. "You're still a sentimental idiot, you know."

"And yet, you still love me," Wilson pointed out, "so what does that make _you_?"

Smiling a little, House reached out to trace his finger along Wilson's hand. "It makes me…a _happy_ idiot."

"Well," Wilson said, smiling back as he squeezed House's hand, "that makes two of us."

* * *

_Fin!_


End file.
